Retribution: The Harry Starke Novels, #7

By Blair Howard

Shadows from the past.

A brutal murder.

This time it's personal.

 

It takes only one phone call to turn Harry Starke into a monster. It begins when Harry's kid brother is brutally murdered, his body thrown into the murky waters of the Tennessee River. That alone would be enough to set Harry on the warpath, but less than twenty-four hours after the body is found, Harry finds out there's a bounty on his head, too. $25,000.

 

His answer?

 

Strike first and strike hard. And so it begins.

 

Harry and his army of three must go up against old enemies, but they face almost insurmountable odds when they go looking for… retribution.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Howard
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223798200

Blair Howard

Blair C. Howard is a Royal Air Force veteran, a retired journalist, and the best-selling author of more than 50 novels and 23 travel books. Blair lives in East Tennessee with his wife Jo, and Jack Russell Terrier, Sally.

Book preview

1

Saturday Evening

He came to slowly, as if waking from a dream. Pain began to course through his body, slowly at first and then with greater intensity, until he was trembling from head to toe. His eyes wouldn’t focus, his lips felt glued together, and then he realized that this was no dream—it wasn’t even a nightmare. It was for real.

He looked around, but saw nothing. The darkness was total, not a glimmer of light anywhere, and it was quiet, cold, and damp. Cold and damp? But he was sweating. He tried to move and couldn’t. He could move his head, and he could breathe, but that was about all. When he did try to move, spears of agony surged upward from his ankles and wrists, and he realized he was tied to a chair—and tied tightly.

He sat still, head back, eyes closed, and breathed deeply. It helped a little, but the pain…. His feet were numb. He tried to wriggle his toes and almost passed out again, the pain was so intense. He stilled his efforts, and waited; the pain subsided into numbness again. He breathed slowly. Where the hell am I? What happened? Who the f….

His head throbbed. His mind was a whiteout. Nothing. And then the memories came flooding back.

He remembered going to make the buy. It had been late. Saturday. But what the hell day is it now?

He’d been alone, in his car on McCallie. Midnight was just a few ticks of the clock away. The street had been quiet when he pulled around the back of the small, Italianesque strip mall, an incongruous building as out of place on that section of McCallie as a Christian monastery in Raqqa, Iraq. Except for a single black Chevy Tahoe parked close to the steel door at the rear of the building, the parking lot was deserted.

He wasn’t concerned. He’d called earlier, talked to Shady, and placed an order. The SUV was exactly where he’d been told it would be. He pulled alongside it, driver’s side to driver’s side, and rolled down his window. The windows of the other vehicle were heavily tinted, and he couldn’t see who was inside, but he still wasn’t worried. He waited. Most of the parking lot was in shadows. Not much was visible. After a minute or so he leaned out the window and tapped gently on the window of the other car. The window rolled slowly down, revealing a large, grinning black face surrounded by a nest of thick dreadlocks that reminded him of a bunch of hand-rolled cigars.

Wha’ fo’ you wan’, mon? The accent was unmistakably Jamaican.

You’ve got something for me, right?

What do I got?

He didn’t know what to say to that, and there was a brief, awkward silence. Okay, that’s fine. Never mind. Sorry I bothered you.

He reached for the gearshift, but before he could engage it the grinning face said, Now wha’ fo’ you wan’ go runnin’ off?

He put the car in gear. It’s no biggy. I made a mistake is all.

You sure did, Hank. The accent was gone.

He jerked his head around to stare at the man—How the hell does he know my name?—and found himself looking down the barrel of the biggest revolver he’d ever seen. It was funny what went through a man’s mind in a crisis. All he could think was: Colt Python.

Put your hands on the wheel and sit still. Just do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.

So he did as he was told. What the hell is going on? He’s definitely not police. And the man wasn’t who he was supposed to be meeting, either.

Two men got out of the other side of the Chevy, walked around the back, and then up between the two cars to his driver’s door. The leading man shoved a gun in through his window, and the Chevy reversed ten feet or so to allow him room to open his door.

Get yo’ ass outa du vee-hi-cul, the taller of the two men growled, jabbing the gun in his face. An’ take it nice an’ easy. You heah?

Again he did as he was told. He pushed the door open gently, keeping his hands in sight, and then stepped down with them held high.

The smaller of the two men stepped forward and slammed the door shut.

Turn around, asshole. The man’s voice was so high-pitched it almost sounded like a woman’s.

Reluctantly, he turned.

There was a blinding flash of white light, and then only blackness until he came to, God only knew where.

He was cold, very cold.

"Hey!" He yelled it at the top of his lungs and immediately wished he hadn’t. The effort pulled his wrists and ankles against the restraints, and the pain…. He’d never known such agony before.

Once the pain had receded a little he sat quietly, assessing his situation. It wasn’t good. Not good? It’s—it’s… really, really bad. It’s I’m-gonna-friggin’-die bad, is what it is.

The enormity of it closed in around him like a soggy blanket, and he shivered violently.

As afraid as he was, he eventually dozed off. He was jerked back to reality by the squeal of metal scraping against metal—rusty, worn-out hinges. A door opened somewhere above him, and a stream of white light shone down, searing his eyes. He screwed them shut and lowered his chin to his chest. And then the lights came on. He could see now, but barely. The room was huge—at least eighty feet by a couple of hundred—and he was dead in the center of it.

Damn, I hope that ain’t prophetic.

The light, if it could be called that—shone dimly down from a half dozen incandescent bulbs almost fifty feet above his head. In every direction, the room eventually disappeared into shadows. Three men came through the door and stood on a catwalk that fronted a string of small, prefabricated offices, that hung like nesting boxes the entire width of the room.

Hey, Hank, the man with dreads shouted down, you awake yet?

Hank squinted up, his head to one side in an attempt to avoid the light. Weak as it was, it hurt his eyes.

I see that you are, the man said lightly, his voice echoing, and after a moment he started down the steps, his two henchmen following. The voice and accent were Southern, but there was no hint of Ebonics, no street slang. It was almost refined, but not quite. The man was black, solidly built, and smartly dressed: well-cut designer jeans, blue and white–checkered shirt, shoes…. He couldn’t see them, and he sure as hell didn’t care.

Dreads stopped a few feet in front of him, his feet wide apart, hands on his hips. He smiled.

You know who I am, boy?

Er… no, sir.

I’m Lester Tree. Your worst nightmare. And I want my money.

Shady? Shady Tree? Money? What money? I always pay for the score.

Not the pookie, you moron. You owe me almost fourteen large and I want—

Before he could finish, the smaller of Tree’s two honchoes stepped forward and slapped Hank’s face so hard he thought his teeth had come loose.

"It’s Mr. Tree to you, butt wipe."

"Now, now Henry…. Hah, you two have the same name. How cool is that? Now, Henry, we don’t need none of that violence. Do we Hank? Now where was I? Oh yeah—I want it now!"

Hank, his cheek still stinging, looked wildly around. Oh jeez, you mean Nestor. Look, I didn’t know. I don’t—I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t, but I—I… I can get it.

Tree heaved a sigh; the two cronies grinned at one another.

Tree was, like his namesake, a tall man, a black Hulk Hogan. Looking up at him, Hank had a hard time believing the wild tales he’d heard about him. He looked more banker than drug lord; even the dreads were neat and clean.

Somehow I had an idea you’d say that, Tree said, staring up at the faraway ceiling—it was almost like he was talking to himself.

Son, he continued, "we have a problem, and it’s not just the money, it’s a matter of trust and respect, too. See, when you play Texas Hold’em, you’re supposed to play with money. Your own money. When you run out of your own money, you’re supposed to get up, leave, and come back another day with more of your own money. But that wasn’t what you did now was it, Hank? They do call you Hank, right, Henry? Whatever. No, you didn’t do that. You wrote notes to Nestor totaling $13,750, which he was good enough to accept. He trusted you, Hank. The money? You lost it, which was to be expected; you played like a total dickhead. And then what did you do, Hank?"

He waited for an answer. He didn’t get one.

I’ll tell you what you did. You upped and left like a damn cock-a-roach is what you did, and nobody’s seen your ass since. You stiffed Nestor of his fourteen large—which, by default, means you stiffed me. Not a smart thing to do, was it boys?

Both cronies grinned and shook their heads enthusiastically, in unison.

I’ll get it. I’ll get it. I’ll get it for you tomorrow. I promise, Shady… Mr. Tree. He corrected himself just in time; the small man had taken a step forward, but Tree raised an arm and stopped him.

Easy, Henry. Take it easy. You’ll get your turn in a minute.

Hank’s blood ran cold; he shivered violently; it was that awful feeling that someone had just driven a truck over his grave.

"Oh don’t worry, Hank. I’m not gonna to let them hurt you… well, not much. See, I do have to teach you a lesson. If I don’t, well, you understand, right? I let you off, they’ll all think I’m soft. Can’t have that now can I? Cause I ain’t!"

Again he waited for an answer, but Hank said nothing.

So where will you get my money from, and when? Tree asked.

Tomorrow. I promise. From my brother. He’ll give it to me. He will. He will.

Yeah, knowing your brother, I do think he will. Well, he’d better. Tree stared down at him for a few long seconds, then gestured at the two men. Duvon, Henry, teach this young fella a little lesson. Not too rough… oh hell, I don’t have to tell you boys how to handle your business. Just get on with it. I’ll be back directly.

Duvon James and Henry Gold were a rare couple. Duvon, dressed in jeans, a black tee, and what could only be called a coat of many colors, was a big man. Not tall big, maybe five eleven, but with a solid build and a shock of jet black hair cut short, almost to the scalp. He cut an imposing and scary figure. And Hank was indeed scared.

Duvon’s partner, Henry, was an equally rare bird. For some reason he was affecting a sort of 1940s gangster look, and wore a zoot suit in a weird, dark gold color. It had to have been tailored to fit, for Henry Gold was maybe five foot six and 140 pounds sopping wet.

How you doin’, sunshine? Gold asked pleasantly. He received no answer, and for that Hank was rewarded with a vicious slap across the face.

I said, he repeated, "how you doin’?

I’m… okay, Hank said breathlessly, anxious to avoid another teeth-rattling slap.

That’s better. Now den, when we talks to you, you answer. Got it?

Hank nodded, and received another face-numbing slap.

That’s no answer, bro.

Yes, yes, yes! Please don’t hit me again.

Oney if you don’ do as yous told. Now den, Duvon. You got anythin’ to ask our frien’?

Duvon growled something that even Gold couldn’t have understood. Needless to say, Henry couldn’t answer, and so Duvon proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. He lost count of how many times he was punched in the face before Gold was able to drag Duvon off. Duvon stepped reluctantly back, half turned, then turned back once more to face Hank.

Hank peered blearily up at him, but the fact that he saw what was coming didn’t make it any better.

Duvon pushed Gold aside and landed a haymaker right cross on Hank’s jaw. He must have put all of his considerable weight behind it, because Hank heard the loud snap, like a tree branch breaking, and then nothing, not even darkness.

Whada hell you do dat fo’? Gold shrieked at Duvon. You done killed his ass."

Duvon just stood, still as a pole, his hands still curled into fists but now hanging loosely at his sides, and he looked down at his victim, a twisted smile on his face. He didn’t say a word.

Hey, Shady Tree said loudly as he descended the stairs. You teach that boy a lesson yet?

Oh he done that all right, Gold said quietly. He done taught him one he’ll never forget.

Well, wake him up. We need to get him outa here. Wait, what the hell? What’s wrong with him?

Er… Duvon killed his ass.

Tree was obviously horrified. He stared down at the corpse and sucked his lower lip so far into his mouth he almost swallowed it.

Holy shit…. Do you have any idea what you did? Do you have any idea who he was?

Gold stared at him, not comprehending.

I think you just opened the gates of Hades and released the damn Kraken.

2

Monday morning

Iwoke up that Monday morning feeling better than I had in a long time. I’d had a good week previously, an even better weekend, and thanks to Amanda the renovations to the house were finally finished. She’d put in almost six months of hard work, not just physically but dealing with contractors, designers, and everything else that needed to be done to drag the old pile into the twenty-first century, and she’d done a fantastic job. The house looked brand new, as did the beautifully landscaped gardens that sloped down the east side of Lookout Mountain; the place